An Answer to a Stupid Question
by Chloe Veverka
Summary: Angie reflects on what she might say if someone asked her a certain question, as difficult and stupid as she finds the question to be.


Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to anything related to Harry Potter. My writing is only for entertainment purposes only, let alone as an outlet for creativity.

Author's Note: So I've read a lot of fan fiction, but this is my first time sharing my own attempt at fan fiction. It was written as an afterthought that I had within the past hour. I am an avid Fred/Angelina fan, though I am slowly coming to terms with the idea of Angelina/George. So this is my take on the sorts of emotions that might run through Angie's mind concerning Fred, especially if someone was to ask her a certain question.

Anyways, I tend to spend too much time rewriting and re-editing critical writing. So I figure that as an exercise, I would try writing something down, however short an entry, and submit it soon thereafter. I'm working on longer stories and will try to submit those soon. Reviews would be lovely, thank you:)

Written from the perspective of Angie at some point after Deathly Hollows.

Spoilers: beware if you haven't read DH.

An Answer to a Stupid Question

If someone was to ask me, "Angie, what do you miss most about him?" I would stare her in the face with the iciest, darkest stare I could fathom. I would reach deep into myself, into the nether realms of my soul, and pull from within the longest sliver of Fred memories that I could bare to part with, even for that brief moment, because of the emptiness that would shiver in its stead. I would proudly, tenderly hold that luminous sliver in front of my assailant and say "Here are 8 years' worth of touch, smell, taste, sights, and sounds that remind me of Fred, that originated from Fred, that ARE Fred. Take your pick as to which one I miss the most; for they are all equivalent in the strength that they give me and the weakness that they bring to my kneecaps." I can barely stand when I see a flash of red in a crowd, only to be reminded that there is no way in Hell that it could be him. Teardrops fall into every mug of butterbeer that I drink because it reminds me of our Hogsmeade trips. When I read the words "Yule Ball," I remember the way that his hands framed my body on the dance floor. I freeze when the wind blows and I think I hear someone whisper "Angel" against my ear the way that Fred used to. I barely blink while walking through the dark because I remember the light from his wand, his hand surrounding mine, as he took me through the hidden passageways of Hogwarts. The way that he said, without saying anything, "I'm here with you, there's nothing to fear." I feel his phantom lips against mine when I visit The Burrow, like he's welcoming me home. I want to scream every time I see a flash of green, no matter if it be a lightning bolt or techno lights. And Quidditch. It's a sport that I both love and hate for the feelings that it brings: of me being on my broom, riding through the wind, dodging and ducking, my soul soaring. But I remember his laughter right behind me as he flew to do his best at keeping me safe. And no matter how high I try to fly, how far into the clouds I urge my broom to go, I can never reach him now. But he is everywhere that I go and I see him in everything that I did and do and aspire to do one day. I had always dreamt that he'd be there with me, to spend every wonderful, awful, glorious, horrible moment of life with me and his family and our friends. But he can't be. He won't be. And I am haunted by his final smile, both sweet and maddening of an image. I loved him, yes. Simple fancy that blossomed into infatuation that bloomed into love cut short. I hate him for leaving George, but I love him for leaving us with that blasted, intrepid smile of confidence and bravery. Gryffindor he was and ever shall be. His memory will live on in all of those that he touched. And I will live on because I know that he would have wanted me to smile. Fred loved to make everyone smile and laugh, see the joy in life. He was my first love and I owe him all the smiles that I can radiate towards the sky. If he can feel my happiness, no matter its cause, then I know that he's happy. And I believe that the best thing I can do right now to make him happy is to be a hand, a wand's light, for George. To remind him of how to smile. And if George and I can lie in the grass one blustery day, with the drenching rain blinding us as we squint up into the sky, and if we can smile all the while… I know that we'll both be fine. Because, after all, it'll only be Fred up there, causing mischief, the way that we love him.


End file.
